


Unraveled

by glim



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Early Modern Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>A month into their tour of the kingdom, Merlin fell ill.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Unraveled

"Are you writing letters home? Accounts of our travels?" Arthur asked, standing in the doorway to Merlin's room. "To Gaius, I suppose."

Merlin barely looked up from his writing desk. Gold light from the lamp on the desk pooled around him, touching his hair and his hands, and glinting off the blue in his eyes when he glanced up to acknowledge Arthur.

Arthur knew, at the back of his mind, that he shouldn't be here, not at this time, not when the rest of the house had already retired and the nighttime chill was setting in. He knew, too, that Merlin shouldn't be awake, still clad in his waistcoat and breeches, cravat still wrapped around his neck. He didn't sleep enough; not even magic could sustain a man who kept the hours that Merlin tended to keep.

But then, Merlin was sort of an idiot, Arthur supposed, and needed to be reminded that he needed to sleep at night, not to sit up writing letters well past midnight. He'd ruin his eyesight well before he was forty.

Which meant that there were only a few more more years during which Arthur would have to endure Merlin's sharp glances and knowing stares. Someday, Merlin would stop looking at Arthur as he did now, peering over the rims of his spectacles and refusing to speak until Arthur felt as if he were a boy again being scolded by his schoolmaster.

Arthur lowered his eyes just as he caught the reflection of gold light in the blue of Merlin's. Someday Merlin would look at him in a different manner and see Arthur for who he was, not just a boy and not just a prince.

"Writing, yes, but whether it's letters or not is none of your business. You ought to be asleep," Merlin added and returned to his writing while Arthur hovered in the doorway.

"As should you. And of course it's my business. _You're_ my business. You work --"

" -- for your father, and that's quite enough of that, Arthur."

Arthur crossed his arms tightly over his chest and lifted his chin. When Merlin failed to notice his reaction, Arthur stepped into the room and watched Merlin write for a few minutes. He had tight, precise penmanship and wrote, Arthur thought, in the language of the Old Religion. An odd, hot, painful sensation twisted inside Arthur's stomach at the realization that he couldn't read what Merlin was writing and that Merlin had the ability to keep secrets from him. More secrets. Merlin kept his past shut up close inside him and only revealed the smallest of things to Arthur: his mother's name, his favorite book, a faded memory of the time he visited Camelot as a small child.

"Father says you remember the Dragon Lords."

Merlin's quill point stilled suddenly on the parchment in front of him and he turned to Arthur, quiet and cautious. "Your father also says that I practice strange magic and can't manage to walk without tripping over myself. And, yet, here I am."

"Well. He's right, you know. About the tripping."

A smile flickered in Merlin's eyes. "Possibly. And the magic?"

The hot twisting pain flared inside Arthur again. He couldn't speak to Merlin's magic; how could he, if Merlin never wanted to tell him anything about it. "Is there anything about you that isn't strange? I suspect your magic is the least of it."

A bit more of a smile, but only brief, and then Merlin was turning back to his writing desk. He wrote and Arthur watched, oddly captivated by the scratch of pen on parchment and the curve of Merlin's fingers.

"You should get some rest," Merlin said when they'd both been silent too long.

Arthur's footsteps sounded loud in the empty, unfamiliar corridor from Merlin's rooms to his own.

*

By the time Arthur was four, all the dragons in Albion had been tamed. The great ones that lived in the north, the smaller ones that skirted the edges of the forest, the lithe ones that skimmed close to both land and water while in flight: all tame, neither captive nor free.

His father had taken the name Pendragon and declared the land at peace. The dragon lord who had served at his side left Camelot in Uther's hands.

Arthur had seen dragons growing up. The smaller ones would wander into Camelot's villages every now and then, oftentimes taking food at the hands of those who would feed them. Even smaller ones would skirt the corridors of the castle itself, competing with the resident cats for scraps from the kitchen.

He'd tried to catch one and make it his pet, a small, slim green and blue dragon that had liked to nip at Arthur's ankles playfully as he walked through the corridors of the royal apartments. Arthur had learned quickly that even the tiniest, tamest dragon had no desire to be caught and even his dragon, his little green and blue marvel, didn't deserve that fate.

Once, when he was a small boy lying abed with fever, he'd dreamt of the fire and fury of an untamed dragon, had seen the country around Camelot laid waste, and had, at last, heard the voice of one who had the strength and ability to call the great dragon down from the sky.

From that night forward, the men and woman who had tamed the dragons, the ones who held such magic in their hands and voices, it was for their return to Albion that Arthur longed; something inside him yearned to see their power, wild and unharnessed, not checked by any law that Uther had set forth.

*

A month into their tour of the kingdom, Merlin fell ill.

Arthur wanted to laugh, to call Merlin weak and say that it was typical of him -- a month away from Camelot and of course he'd catch cold.

But Arthur has seen the extent of Merlin's magic and has known the power inherent in Merlin's very being. Even if he can't name it and Merlin won't spell it out for him, Arthur could feel a gathering warmth inside him when Merlin's close by that he knew found its source in the spark of magic that dwelt inside Merlin. The knowledge wasn't one that Arthur would admit to easily, especially to Merlin himself, nor was it one for which he had yet found adequate words. If only Merlin would tell him about his magic and disclose to Arthur all the answers to the questions he knew not how to ask. Nevertheless, the knowledge lurked at the edge of Arthur's senses and curled inside him, hot and twisting, an impatient knowledge, one that longed for expression.

So when he saw Merlin grow pale and hoarse over the course of a day and retire to bed early that evening, what would have been a laugh changed to a small smile and all he could do was bid Merlin a good night.

The following day, when Arthur stood in the entrance to Merlin's room, they weren't staying at the house of one of his father's retainers, but at one of his father's own castles north of Camelot. The early afternoon sun slipped through the drapes and left slants of light over Merlin's bed, where he sat propped up against the pillows as he wrote. Not letters this time -- Arthur had learned that he saved those for the hours of night -- but journal entries of some sort. Though a castle servant had built the fire up in the large bedchamber, Merlin still had an extra blanket spread over his lap and between pages, he nestled down into the bed and drew the blanket up closer to his chest.

Before Arthur could knock or otherwise make his presence known, Merlin let out a great sneeze, a huge, noisy affair that looked and sounded as if it came from the very soles of his feet. He blinked a few times after and scrubbed at his face with the back of his wrist and looked so bleary, so pink around the eyes and nose, that the sudden tenderness Arthur felt caught him right in the center of his chest.

It was strange to feel something for Merlin that wasn't the usual combination of fascination and frustration. This felt like warmth diffusing right beneath the surface of Arthur's skin, gathering in his chest and then spilling through his limbs when Merlin coughed roughly and fumbled over the coverlet for his handkerchief.

"Apparently, this is supposed to make you feel better." Arthur strode into the room before the diffusion of warmth could spread any further and make him hesitant. "Chamomile, honey, and lemon, I think."

Merlin startled, then flushed pink over his ears as he quickly swiped at his nose and cleared his throat before talking to Arthur. "That sounds like it'll just put me to sleep."

"Then it's what you need, because you sound awful. What did you even do to yourself?"

Merlin gathered the coverlet up closer to his chest and shut his journal. "I thought you were taking a tour of the castle gardens. Did you get bored already?"

Arthur placed the tisane on the table next to Merlin's bed and watched sunlight scatter over Merlin's hands where he closed the metal clasp on the cover of his journal. Didn't he want to share _anything_ with Arthur? "I've seen the gardens, and most of the grounds, already today. It's past noon, you know."

"Oh. I didn't realize..." Merlin shifted to get up and blinked when Arthur rested a hand on his shoulder. "Arthur..."

"Shall I read to you? You know my Latin's good enough for that, at least."

"Your Latin's fine," Merlin said and nodded to empty space next to him on the bed.

More warmth, and a tiny sense of triumph, flooded Arthur's chest.

*

Of course Arthur knew Latin, as well as all the languages of Albion. Gaius had seen to that quite early on in his education and had ensured that he learned grammar, logic, and rhetoric, and after the trivium, the quadrivium: arithmetic, geometry, music, astronomy. Albion clung to the old ways of teaching, though it had abandoned the oldest of its religions, and Arthur was as well learned as any of the university students in Camelot.

Instead of university, however, his father had decided he'd find Arthur a tutor, somebody younger than Gaius, somebody who could take Arthur on a tour of their kingdom and on the grand one of the surrounding lands and across the sea.

After the hot restless summer following Arthur's fourteenth birthday, Merlin arrived in Camelot. He'd stood in the courtyard in a blue cloak that billowed on the late summer wind and he'd bowed to Gaius before he did to any of the royal family.

Before the day was through, he'd endeared himself to the kitchen staff and had been expelled from the castle library. He'd eaten dinner at the king's table that night and stayed long after Arthur had left the table to talk with Uther and Morgana.

The next morning Merlin had set a half-dozen of his own books in front of Arthur and smiled when Arthur scowled at him.

*

"There," Arthur murmured when he finished reading the section Merlin had chosen and set the book on the table by the bed. "You look about ready to drop off."

Merlin hummed a little in reply and shifted on the pillows. He couldn't have been listening very well to Arthur's reading, what with all the sneezing and coughing he'd been doing, and Arthur had caught his eyes drooping shut at least a couple times.

Which was for the best, really, and not just because he'd caught such a terrible cold. Arthur had stumbled over words and had lost his place more than once, his mind drifting from the pages in his lap to the man next to him on the bed. Merlin's body was bedwarm and relaxed and every now and then his leg would nudge against Arthur's, familiar and almost affectionate.

Or, at least, Arthur couldn't help but read affection in Merlin's small touches. He'd wanted that from Merlin for so long that some days he feared his yearning still burned with the heat of a fourteen year old boy's heart.

"You might stay a while, anyway, even if you're finished reading." Merlin's hand touched Arthur's and he eased back against the pillows to make more space for Arthur next to him.

Not that he need've bothered. The bed was big enough and the afternoon sun warm enough that Arthur wouldn't've had a problem stretching out next to Merlin. The twist of heat and anticipation inside him made Arthur nervous, but even that diminished when Merlin had to turn from him and cough, roughly and loudly, a few times.

"Are you all right? Do you need more of your tisane? Here, _here_ , Merlin, don't suffer." Arthur reached for the drink from the table and handed it to Merlin, then watched until he'd drained the cup. "Better?"

"Better," Merlin agreed, though his voice sounded worse than before.

"Now you should rest. I don't know what Gaius would do to me if I brought you back home like this."

Merlin laughed, and the laugh snagged in his chest and he coughed again, but not as wretchedly as before. He sighed when Arthur's hand came to rest on him and his eyes fell shut again as Arthur rubbed his chest.

"You won't need to worry. M'fine, really, only need a few days to recover." Merlin blinked up at Arthur, his expression blurry with sleep, and he smiled. "Don't worry."

"I'm not. Well, maybe, but only a bit." Arthur glanced away to avoid Merlin's smile, then found himself pulled back to it almost immediately. He shouldn't be this close to Merlin, not close enough to stroke his chest or to lift his hand to cup Merlin's cheek, pretending to check for fever but only wanting to feel the curve of Merlin's jaw against the palm of his hand.

 _Don't regret this, please don't regret this, of all the things, not this,_ he thought, and lowered his forehead to touch Merlin's.

"There," Merlin said and his voice was quiet and low and hoarse, but warm, and with the same richness of affection that Arthur had felt in his touch, "don't worry."

*

Arthur sat with Merlin for two more days, reading to him from the books Merlin had chosen and giving him warm drinks and sickly sweet cordials for his cold. The mornings Arthur had to dedicate to his duties as a visiting prince and the evenings were full of obligatory social engagements, but his afternoons, as always, were reserved for Merlin.

He liked being able to indulge Merlin; he liked writing out notes and messages for him so Merlin wouldn't have to write them himself; he liked leafing through the small collection of books Merlin had brought with him and finding the stories and poems Merlin liked best so that he could read them to Merlin, even if Arthur couldn't understand his fondness for so many of them.

Most of all, he liked how so many of the things about Merlin that he'd grown fond of in the past three and a half years were exemplified by this new closeness between them. Merlin laughed more freely in front of him now and didn't try to hide any of his weaknesses from Arthur, even going as far to explain how having a bad cold interrupted the way his magic worked. He drew Arthur in close to him on the bed and let Arthur rub his chest or back. And sometimes, when he was sleepy, instead of just laying a hand on Arthur's arm or shoulder, he'd touch Arthur's hair -- brush it back from his forehead or smooth it when Arthur came to see him after he'd been out riding.

"Here, we'll play cards today," Arthur proclaimed the third afternoon he spent in Merlin's rooms.

"You could play piquet in the drawing room." Merlin sat up against the pillows on his bed, took the deck from Arthur to cut, and drew his card. "I doubt many people are out in the rain and wind today."

"I suppose. They let me win, though. Even Morgana lets me win at home." Arthur drew his card, then took the deck back to deal the first hand. "She still thinks I'm a little boy, and that I'll cry if I don't win. Not that I ever cried."

"Hm." Studying his cards, Merlin sniffled, and blushed when Arthur nudged a clean handkerchief at him. How he could still be so strangely shy sometimes was a mystery to Arthur. "You don't think I let you win?"

"No? I just... well, honestly, I just assumed that you were really rubbish at piquet."

The smile that edged at Merlin's mouth was more like the ones that Arthur had become familiar with from Merlin, and less like the sleepy, vague ones he'd been giving Arthur the day before. His cold had settled firmly in his head, but he looked and sounded better than he had yesterday or the day before. Well enough not to doze off next to Arthur, not to nestle in warmly next to him and ask him to stay longer, Arthur suspected, and he let his disappointment show in a frown that he gave his own hand.

"You're right," Merlin said, and cleared his throat to say it again when his voice creaked mid-word. "You're right, though. I'm terrible at this game."

Arthur set his current hand down on the bedclothes. Merlin had already declared carte blanche for the hand and they hadn't yet set about exchanging cards, but Arthur suspected he already had the advantage. "You could use magic?"

"Ah, perhaps. But that wouldn't make the game any more enjoyable." Merlin cleared his throat again, the sound rougher and lower this time, and reached for the honey-sweet concoction Arthur had brought up for him today. "And I'd probably still lose."

"You could--" Arthur stopped and looked down at his cards again. Before he could look up, Merlin touched his arm and rubbed his thumb in a small, gentle circle. "I... I didn't mean--"

"I know. You've seen my magic. I'm not hiding it from you, Arthur."

They played the rest of the game quietly. Arthur did end up winning, but that moment was nothing compared to the touch of Merlin's hand on his arm and the way he smiled at Arthur when Arthur shifted to sit closer to him on the bed.

He liked this best, then, Arthur decided:

He liked how the softness in Merlin's eyes didn't fade and how easy it was to make him smile.

*

Arthur gathered those smiles up with a heated desperation and saved them up, remembered for the hours after the dinners and the dancing. He'd call on them as he lay in his own bed, the sheets still cool against his skin, and touch his fingers to his lips and chest, imagining Merlin smiling at him, imagining Merlin touching him.

Arthur thought, sometimes, with the way Merlin spoke of the past -- both his own and Albion's -- that Merlin had to be more than about twice his age. Yet, his eyes were bright and his hair still dark with no silver running through it, and his face only lined when he let his smile touch his eyes fully. There was a hardness about him, though, a knowledge of the world and of magic that he hadn't taught Arthur.

When he laughed, he looked so young, as young as Arthur; young enough that Arthur could catch glimpses of the tall, skinny, awkward boy Merlin must've been, all thin, pale limbs, ruffled dark hair, blue eyes, and brilliant ears. There had to have been a rawness all along the edges of his body, his magic brash and untamed, his smile just as open and ready.

They could've been boys together, Arthur supposed, but he wouldn't give up Merlin as his tutor for anything. Certainly not for another life, where he wouldn't have been able to see Merlin stand in the courtyard that hot summer day, his cloak billowing and his body slim, strong, and hard beneath it. Nor would he surrender all the afternoons he'd spent since then in Merlin's study, watching the magic unfold before him.

He could think of the raw-limbed boy Merlin had been, or he could think of the hardness that had strengthened Merlin since his early days, but Arthur preferred to think of the softness of Merlin's mouth before he fell asleep and the warmth of his hands when he reached them out from under the blankets to touch Arthur. He called on those memories, too, and in his mind they shifted slightly, so that Merlin's mouth was soft against Arthur's skin and his hands firm as they moved down Arthur's body. He'd yield to Merlin -- he'd yield _everything_ to Merlin and never regret it -- and it would feel like he was unfolding, untangling, like he was becoming undone.

*

On the fourth day, the day they had arranged to leave and continue their journey, Merlin declared himself fit to travel.

He was still a bit pink around the eyes and nose and his cough would catch him unawares at times to bend him double and render him incapable of talking without a rasp in his voice. But even Arthur, whose heart had sunk when he brought Merlin breakfast and found him already dressed, had to admit that Merlin looked and sounded much better. The carriage would be warm and Merlin would have to do nothing more strenuous than read or converse with Arthur.

Arthur's stomach clenched at the thought. What would they speak of now that the small, safe place they'd created had disappeared? He would regret the past few days, just as Arthur had feared he would, and the tangle of frustration inside Arthur would only tighten further. He'd turn Arthur away, regret his moments of vulnerability, and collect all the half-secrets and smiles he'd shared with Arthur, pack them up away with his writing desk and his journals and record them in his tight, unreadable script.

After he settled into his seat in the carriage and loosened his scarf, Merlin let out a long breath that was almost a sigh. They traveled in silence for a few minutes and each time Merlin looked over at Arthur, Arthur ducked his head and pretended to gaze out the window.

Finally, Merlin cleared his throat. "My father was one of the great Dragon Lords," he said, "and I learned from him their ways alongside those of the Old Religion from the priestess Nimue, as your sister Morgana did from Morgause."

Arthur stared at Merlin. "I never doubted... I know you're powerful," he said, frowned, and let his knee brush against Merlin's. "There's more, though, isn't there? I always thought you had so many secrets."

Merlin nodded. "Not much more. I came to Camelot to tutor the prince, to eventually show him the ways of magic," he said in a soft voice, "but I'm not sure that I would've stayed so long if the prince had been any other than you."

"Oh." Arthur pressed his knee closer to Merlin's. "Then I'm glad that it was you who came after that long summer. I'd been waiting."

"Yes." Merlin drew off his gloves and reached across the seat to take Arthur's hand into his own; his grip was warm and firm and his magic sparked over Arthur's senses to unravel the knot of secrets and uncertainty between them.


End file.
